


nobody puts angel in the corner

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Canon Divergence, Character Dynamics, Crowley cooks!, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Garden of Eden, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Language, M/M, character exploration, post-trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: Heaven hasn’t exactly treated Aziraphale right. Crowley sets out to make up for that.





	nobody puts angel in the corner

For the record, Crowley _hated_ Heaven.

Of course, that was a big reason why he’d left in the first place, but on his recent trip back- disguised as Aziraphale, with none of the other angels being the wiser- he was dismayed to find it not much better than before he had Fallen. All these sleek, cold surfaces. All these slick, cold Archangels. All those scathing, humiliating comments directed at Aziraphale that Crowley realised he’d had to endure for centuries.

It was enough to make a demon sick.

And oh, Gabriel. Gabriel, Gabriel, _Gabriel_. Smug, handsome, self-righteous bastard, mistreating Aziraphale all along. It was truly a testament to the principality’s patience and resilience that he’d managed to go this long without lashing out, but, as Crowley resolutely stepped into the column of hellfire without a shred of fear, he seethed with the realisation that Aziraphale should have never had to bear it in the first place.

The most Crowley could get away with was breathing fire in Gabriel’s general direction, and oh, was it _worth_ it.

No, Heaven was not a place to be missed.

Given his way, Crowley would have caused the hellfire to engulf the entirety of the trial chamber, hoist Gabriel up by his stupid little scarf and, laughing maniacally, threaten him and the other Archs into apologising to Aziraphale on their very knees. He certainly entertained that fantasy during their lunch at the Ritz, his rare demon’s imagination running rampant even as Aziraphale finished the last of the dessert.

“This is _so_ worth saving the world for,” Aziraphale gushed, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Anything else you want, my dear?”

“Hnng? Nah,” Crowley said, snapping out of his violent little daydream. “All good, Angel.”

He looked so happy, and so pretty, Crowley thought, for once deciding not to fight the mushy feeling spreading throughout his chest. He could tell, without needing the powers of empathy that angels had (or were supposed to have, anyway) that Aziraphale adored this planet, he loved its people, he found value in every sweet and simple thing that made its home on it.

He shouldn’t have had to be ridiculed by the Archs for something as pure as that.

So, fine then. Heaven didn’t want him, wasn’t going to take him seriously? Crowley would be right here, ready to spoil the fuck out of Aziraphale, giving him every damn thing he deserved but felt ashamed to be having. He’d devote the time to make that clear to Aziraphale with an intentional, generous _demon_-stration that he hoped would make up for everything else- and he already had some ideas about how to do it.

After all, nobody puts his Angel in the corner.  
  


* * *

“Crowley, I swear if this is some kind of- of temptation- “

“Seriously? What do you take me for?”

“Well, a demon, for one thing.”

“I don’t roll like that anymore, Angel. Besides, it’s only a temptation if you’re guilty about wanting it in the first place.” Crowley grinned at Aziraphale from behind gleaming black sunglasses. He held the revolving door to his dining room open, “After you, m’lord.”

Aziraphale gave him a suspicious, sideways look. “What is going on here. You’re usually so generous, of course, but this- expressly inviting me to your place again, with no reason that you’ll give me straightaway- is different. It’s _suss_.”

Crowley stared. “It’s ‘suss’?” He repeated.

“Isn’t that what the young people call it?”

“Right. Whatever.” Crowley propelled him through the door. “Trust me. You won’t regret it. Here! Look. Nice and easy. Ta-da!”

With a flourish, Crowley gestured to a round, dark wood dining table laden with a three-course meal. It smelled delicious, but Aziraphale was also taken by the charming candles on every surface, the array of tiny lanterns hanging from strings wall-to-wall (like star clusters, and of course Crowley would know a thing or two about that), the way his plants- his beautiful, terrified plants- had let themselves sprawl about luxuriously and playfully, vines curling this way and that over the furniture, palm leaves spreading elegantly to create a tiny, verdant rainforest in the dining area. And there was music! None of Crowley’s bebop. Schubert at his finest.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah?” grinned Crowley.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale said, looking round with fascination. “It all looks so different, so lovely! I- “ he turned back to Crowley, mouth quirking like he’d finally been let in on a joke. “It’s the Garden, isn’t it?”

“Clever Angel.” Crowley dragged a chair out for Aziraphale. “Now, sit.”

“That smells amazing,” Aziraphale said, inhaling indulgently. “Where’s this from?”

“From right here, of course,” Crowley said, snatching a bottle of wine and two glasses from the counter. “The chef is in residence.”

“Wait.” Aziraphale turned his head sharply to look at him, “you made this?”

“Just like I made everything else.”

Aziraphale glanced back at the steaming pot roast, the pastries, the crisp and enticing salad; “I didn’t know you could cook!”

“It took some miracling,” Crowley said breezily, “but I like to think it turned out well. Most importantly, I hope you think it turned out well. It’s all for you, of course.”

“For me?” said Aziraphale in a small voice.

“Yes, Angel.” Crowley hooked an ankle round the foot of the other chair and dragged it out, seating himself. Once settled he leaned his elbows on the table (classical bad manners) and regarded Aziraphale seriously. “Now I have had quite a while to mull over our recent experience in heaven and hell,” he said, “and apart from the lingering relief that our plan actually worked, my main takeaway from it all is that your divine colleagues treat you like shit.”

“Well - “ said Aziraphale, always endeavouring to be forgiving, but Crowley interrupted.

“It never really occurred to me just how much you’ve had to put up with all this time. ‘Cause I was standing there, see, and these Archangels are talking to me thinking they’re talking to _you_, and I was like, Well this _is_ a trial and they _are_ mad at him, but then I realised noooooo, this is _always_ how they’ve treated you, they’ve never appreciated a damn thing you did, and fuck it - “ he threw his hands up, “you deserve better than this.”

“Now, now - “ began Aziraphale demurely. Crowley shushed him.

“So,” he continued, opening the wine bottle with a flick of his wrist (the cork popped off, shot into the air and ricocheted off the ceiling, narrowly missing Aziraphale’s shoulder on its descent) “In my best attempt to make up for all of that, I have taken it upon myself to spoil you for the rest of my days - more than I used to, at least.”

“Spoil me?” Aziraphale repeated, flattered.

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley made sure not to meet Aziraphale’s eyes as he poured his glass. “Because you deserve it after the way they’ve fobbed you off for centuries. I’m serious, how did you do it, hmm?” Crowley put down the bottle now and looked at Aziraphale, the exasperation on his face obvious even behind dark glasses. “How did you stand being talked down to like that for thousands of years? I only had one blasted hour with that smug bastard Gabriel, and I already wanted to break every bone in his stupid face!”

Aziraphale laughed as he’d never before dared to laugh at the archangel’s expense. “It really isn’t that bad.”

“You’ve just gotten used to it, that’s all,” said Crowley. “Well, get un-used to it now, baby.” He made a flourishing gesture at the laid-out table, reminding Aziraphale much of the image of Christ on Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper.’ “I’m gonna make sure those feathered fucks leave you well enough alone, and I’m gonna make sure you’re always looked after. I know,” he said, holding up a hand as Aziraphale started to say something, “I know you already have a healthy routine of pleasing yourself, but it’s always different when someone else is around to pamper you, yeah? This is just the tip of the iceberg. My little way of showing you that when you’re with me, _nothing is ever going to stop you from being happy._” He leaned over the table, hands flat on the surface. “We’re on our own side and we’re all we’ve got. So, let me take care of you, Angel.”

For a while Aziraphale did not know what to say. He just looked across the table at Crowley, flustered and flattered all at once and not sure what to do with all this attention, all this _affection_. Crowley sat before him, beaming eagerly, having put in the effort just to please him, and rolled up in the grand gesture was proof of the simple promise that he was willing to do it again.

Aziraphale hoped Crowley wouldn’t notice his eyes welling up. “Oh, Crowley. You really are a good person, deep down. And so, so very good to me.” He smiled. “Thank you.”

“Meh,” said Crowley bashfully, brushing the compliment off with a flick of his hand before it could make him too soft. “Least I can do. Here,” he said quickly, handing a fork to Aziraphale. “Try it. I want to see what you think.”

The pot roast was pork and apples, which Aziraphale had obviously tried before, but it was bizarre to think of Crowley actually _cooking_ this, especially since such a dish required a lot of patience. It wasn’t just that, there were apples in the salad and in the pastry. (In the pastry. Crowley had baked this. Crowley, baking? Maybe the world really had come to an end.)

“Apples all over,” he said with a grin.

“I’ve got a theme going on here,” Crowley replied smoothly. “Now are you going to try it or not?”

Aziraphale flicked his eyes up at the demon, who was watching eagerly. Unwilling to disappoint him now, he took a bite of the salad.

“Oh, wow,” said Aziraphale, and he took another bite, and another, and another. It gave Crowley a strange satisfaction to see him relish the meal, then, curiosity piqued, reach out for a sample serving of the pot roast.

“Crowley, this is _wonderful_,” gushed Aziraphale in between bites. The look he gave him across the table was worth it; nearly enough to make Crowley’s heart melt.

“If you like it, I’ll do it again- and again and again,” Crowley blurted out, and almost immediately regretted it. _That was embarrassing._

Aziraphale beamed. “Actually, you know what I’d like better? Next time- “ and he put one hand over Crowley’s on the table, and Crowley felt his whole body light up like a live wire, “next time, call me over, and we’ll have a go at cooking together. I rather think that would be fun.”

Crowley smiled. “Sure, Angel. Anything you want,” he promised. “Anything at all.”


End file.
